REWIND
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John was calling him by 'Holmes', something he had never done since their second meeting where Sherlock had told him to call him Sherlock, please. Also, the antiquated speech... Was this the past? [Time travel 'AU', inspired by the photo that BBC put out a week ago.]


**REWIND**

There was one more deduction here. One more thing that he should have been seeing but was missing, and the fact that he _knew_ he was missing a fact was, in fact, driving him crazy.

... It had nothing to do with his lack of sleep. Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock exhaled heavily and pressed his fingertips together. He closed his eyes, pondering what that scrap of satin had to do with the dead delivery man. (It wasn't an affaire. He had ruled that out first.)

Unfortunately, he was coming up blank. Annoyed with his brain's apparent choice of day for rebellion, Sherlock swung his legs off the mattress in preparation to go make himself a cup of tea. When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in Baker Street.

He froze automatically, his feet hitting the floor with a soft tap. The first thing, oddly, that he realised was that the floor should be cold. He was barefoot. But when he looked down, he saw that he had shoes on, very much similar to the ones he usually wore but with more tread on them. And then he saw the black trousers - nothing new there - and ran his hand up his stomach against the jacket he was wearing. It wasn't his usual. This was much more formal. Like for a wedding, or a funeral. Sherlock's fingers danced over the little gold chain that attached to a tarnished pocket watch; it was still ticking in perfect rhythm, just serviced, if Sherlock had to guess. He tucked it away absently and glanced at his shirt, off-white and similar to his usual. Everything appeared - and felt - to be more dated.

Sherlock raised his gaze to Baker Street. The place was a mess. Even more a mess than was the usual for his Baker Street. The interior had changed, all the furniture was different. Everything looked... _old_.

Sherlock blinked. "John?" He propelled himself to his feet, nearly colliding with a lamp that had not been there previously. There also seemed to be a growing collection of potted plants. "John?" He wound around the mess, peering in the kitchen. Oh, there were chemicals all over the tables and countertops, that was good. Some things didn't change. "John-" he started, and then turned around and ran smack into John.

Or... what he guessed was John. It looked like John. Only a bit bulkier and impossibly an inch shorter, and a... moustache.

"I say, Holmes, what ails you?" John looked him up and down. "Have you consumed something of import that I should know?"

"What? No, I haven't eaten, what are you on about?"

John paused. "Oh, Holmes, you've been at the seven per cent again, haven't you?"

Sherlock just stared. Well, to be fair, he wasn't sure what to say to that. Seven per cent? A seven per cent solution? Of what? Morphine would be his first guess, it seemed like something he would do, but not enough data. John was calling him by 'Holmes', something he had never done since their second meeting where Sherlock had told him to call him Sherlock, please. Also, the antiquated speech... Was this the past?

"Holmes, old boy, speak to me!"

Sherlock shook his head. "Condolences... Watson," he said slowly, picking each word with care. "I seem to have lost myself within my... thoughts." He frowned slightly. He was not cut out for this.

John nodded slowly. "Perhaps I should have analysed the situation as you would," he said, then smiled lightly and wandered past, leaving Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorway of a flat that he didn't recognise. "Any correspondence from Señor Martinez as of late?"

Sherlock made a face that went unseen as John buried his nose into the newspaper. "Um..." He cleared his throat. "No. Not for several days, I'm afraid."

"Pity." John ruffled the papers. "It seemed most promising."

"Tch, trivial." It was the natural thing to say, and Sherlock didn't stop to think about it. Most things were trivial.

John laughed dryly. "Never will you find an ego less expansive than the Strand itself in you, Holmes."

"Perhaps if the class of common criminal would, at least, _attempt_ to make an effort," Sherlock muttered, moreso to himself as he eyed the teapot on the countertop. He wondered if he should have tea here.

"God forbid the day when criminals reach to Sherlock Holmes's level in their crimes!"

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder. "They have yet to."

John hummed. "I could imagine you as a criminal, Holmes. You are most clever, and wheedling, and cunning. To talk a penny's whore into your bed and leave her there in promise of pay."

"That was for a case!" Sherlock retorted. It _had_ been; he'd needed information from a woman who was indeed a hired companion. They hadn't _done_ anything, but they had gotten back to his bedroom and then he had run off as soon as he had his info and had apparently given John the shock of his life when a woman walked out later on in the afternoon. Clearly, information was overlapping.

"As such as always," John replied idly, flicking through the paper.

"Pardon the intrusion." There were two knocks against the door, and an elderly woman strode into the room. "Telegram for Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head slightly. Was that supposed... yes, he figured that that was Mrs Hudson. He could vaguely see the Martha that he knew, but there was little kindness in this woman's eyes. Amicable presence, but not parental kindness.

"... Oh!" Sherlock shook himself back to the present. The past. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he said, swiping the telegram from the tray. "Leave us," with a wave of his hand. If he was in this world of the past, he would at least take advantage of a potential case. It would indeed be a learning experience, if nothing else. He was game. He was always game.

He scanned the telegram eagerly, drumming his fingers against his thigh. The case seemed interesting, but that was almost second to the fact that he could deduce _very_ little from a telegram. There was no handwriting or choice of paper to analyse. That was irksome.

"Well?"

Sherlock looked up, smiling. "Onwards and forward, my dear Watson. The game is..." He paused, thinking. "... Afoot! Come on!"

Sunny skies were just transcending into golden-yellow hues as the sun set when Sherlock and John returned home. He was dog tired. The case was small, but intricate nonetheless. Everything had stemmed off a pair of golden pince-nez and it had ended with a suicide and what Sherlock was beginning to suspect may be nicotine overdose for himself. He was jittery, but exhausted. All in all, it was a long day in a foreign time and, whilst the past had merits of its own... he much preferred his own cases, his own flat, and his own John.

He made it as far as the sofa before collapsing straight onto his face. Which, in retrospect, he found to be a very poor idea because there was no _padding_ in the sofa cushions.

... He missed the sofa.

Sherlock yawned and rolled over.

"Are you quite sure you're alright, old bean?"

"Quite sure." Sherlock yawned.

"No violin-land for you today, then."

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smile. "Not right now, John."

"Honestly, Holmes, I haven't the slightest what's gotten into you today."

"Hmm..." _Likewise_, he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead, he flung his arm over his eyes and stifled a yawn.

"I'm going to make a pot of tea. Is there a brew you prefer tonight?"

"Not particularly."

"Very well."

Sherlock was halfway asleep when there was a crash from the kitchen. He startled back to reality, halfway off the sofa in his half-unconscious state and found -

\- his bedroom.

His modern-day bedroom at modern-day Baker Street, with all of his usual things around him. The blankets were twisted around his middle, t-shirt draping low off his shoulder. It was dark and chilly and quiet.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly and without moving his head, shifted his eyes to the left and then the right. It was just his bedroom. The alarm said it was three in the morning.

... Everything had been a dream? Of course. Obvious.

Sherlock sighed and flopped face-first back into his own pillow.

* * *

**Episode Ten might be going to be a time travel off episode? /waves I think so! Ever since I saw that pic BBC put out. Would it surprise me? Nope. We've never had a middle episode before, so... :p But anyway, I like anything with these two and I think it'd be fun to see them in the true Holmes verse. And then it all being a dream of course, Sherlock giving his flat the shifty eyes, and then thumping back into the pillows and falling right back asleep. xD**

**Just my interpretation; I had to. I do not own _Sherlock_ or _Sherlock Holmes_. Thanks for reading!**


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